


If I Had My Way With You (wouldn’t use my words at all)

by Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon



Series: I Don't Know How My Heart Deceives Me [2]
Category: Captain America (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Blow Jobs, But not wrongfully so, Canon Divergence, Captain Hydra, Fantasizing, Hydra (Marvel), Hydra!Stemo, Imprisonment, Let Captain Hydra Eat Cake, M/M, Memories, Pining, Post-Secret Empire (Marvel), Shadow Pillar, The things we do so we don't go crazy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-15 22:13:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14798960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon/pseuds/Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon
Summary: Welcome to the Shadow Pillar. It’s been 117 days since Captain Hydra last breathed fresh air, 117 days since he saw the sun. For all the Americans pride themselves on their justice system, he knows his due process and fair trial are never coming, knows that one day—soon—someone will slip soundlessly into his cell while he sleeps, and attempt to end him. But that won’t do. See, Steven Rogers made a promise to someone important. And it’s time to make good.





	If I Had My Way With You (wouldn’t use my words at all)

**Author's Note:**

> Please blame [MnM_ov_Doom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnM_ov_doom/pseuds/MnM_ov_doom) (author of the delightful [_Family Things_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13420011/chapters/30752265)) for this follow-up.
> 
> Hydra!Cap is the worst...but he does love his Zemo. <3

**FRANKLIN DELANO ROOSEVELT MEMORIAL, WASHINGTON, D.C.**

\--FOUR MONTHS AGO--

The fight pulses and throbs, twisting and thrashing like a living creature.

Rogers flows through the chaos. His steps keep time with the pounding heartbeat of the madness. All around him, his masterwork unfolds.

He sidesteps a Hydra agent wrestling with a member of...the New Avengers, maybe? Blood obscures her face, and he doesn’t bother to stop and check her ID card. Whoever she is, she’s on the wrong side of this fight. He hears a satisfying crunch as the agent punches her and she crumples.

He goes for higher ground, to see better and to _be seen_ better. He does not slow until he reaches the toppled statue of FDR. For a moment he stops and stares impassively at the face of the man whose regime took everything from him. Then he digs his heel into the neck of the bronze sculpture, putting pressure on a deep crack. The head snaps off.

Nearby, his cadre of Hydra sorcerers have finally completed their work. Some of them have fallen, giving their lives to the cause. Others lean together in twos and threes, broken but not defeated. No one is left unscathed.

Through their sacrifice, they have wrenched open a portal deep beneath the surface of the Tidal Basin, and the horror that roils out brings a triumphant smirk to Rogers’ lips. It is the Lernaean Hydra, ripped out of history, out of myth. The sun glints off the scales of the writhing creature and it voices a series of hideous and monstrous shrieks. It is a thing of glory, a true tribute to the power and resilience of Hydra.

Despite betrayal and overwhelming odds and the long and tiresome need for secrecy, they have endured. And now, they rise to take their rightful throne. This traitorous capitol will be razed to the ground.

“I can’t be certain whether your beast is perfectly apropos—or terribly gauche.”

Rogers’ smirk broadens into a full, fierce and toothy smile. “Why not both?”

He glances to his right, only able to catch a brief, purple-hued glimpse of Baron Helmut Zemo, before his attention is recalled by a new press of opponents.

He doesn’t dare throw the shield, there are too many guns in the hands of hard-eyed men and women. Even in his bold green armor, he is vulnerable. It’s one of the linchpins of his plan. He stands in plain view, poorly supported, drawing as much of the attention and fire of the so-called ‘heroes’ as he can, so that his strike-forces can operate, attacking critical targets with relative impunity.

“Not how I imagined seeing you again, Helmut,” Rogers says, sentiment coloring his words.

His plans are constantly changing, matching the shifting realities of the situation on the ground. He’s been occupied here for several days, but his last briefing had Zemo in charge of an operation halfway across the world.

They are forced together, back-to-back, guarding each other from fired and thrown projectiles, protecting one another. The rag-tag group of brawlers that leads the enemy charge closes on them, and there is no one Rogers would rather have at his back in this moment.

It’s the first time they’ve touched since that bittersweet day in Leipzig. The circumstances could be better. Rogers snakes his free hand behind his back and grabs Zemo’s wrist. They lace fingers. They squeeze tightly. For a moment they are reunited, for a moment, they are transported to a world all their own. In this single moment there’s Rogers, there’s the Baron: their linked hands and nothing else.

“Shall we rendezvous in Malpaso?” Zemo’s question is brisk and calm, it belies the brutal violence of the assault they repel. “Pick up where we left off a lifetime ago?”

He waits until the very last second to meet an oncoming opponent, because it means letting go of the hand he’s longed for months to hold. When they separate, he feels the loss like a part of him gone missing.

With his instep, Steven kicks the bronze head of FDR into the chest of an oncoming ‘hero,’ casual as you please.

“Consider it a date. One week.” His voice is lush with promise. “We’ll make up for all that lost time. I swear it.”

* * *

**SHADOW PILLAR, INTERNATIONAL WATERS**

\--NOW--

His eyes snap open with the flood of light. It’s early. Before four a.m.. They’ve been trying to throw off his internal clock. Another tactic to slowly drive him crazy. He’s not so breakable.

He stands. He stretches. He takes inventory of his surroundings. It’s his daily routine. After all, today might be the day something changes. With only a hairline crack in the system, he’ll bring this place down around their ears and leave them in the rubble.

The cell is bare and plain. The stainless steel combination sink and toilet stands cold in the corner. It’s a squat, ugly, functional piece of warped metal. If he used his shirt to shine it long enough, he could probably see a vague, twisted reflection. He’d never considered how significant mirrors could be to his concept of self until they were gone. He misses seeing his reflection, even if his doppelgänger stares back.

What functions as his bed is a heavy slab of metal that extends out from the wall at about waist height. It has no legs and no sharp corners, nothing that can be broken off for use as a weapon or a tool. There’s a scratchy mattress pad made of some form of ballistic fiber that he can’t tear or damage, even with his Serum-enhanced strength. The built-in pillow is even harder than the rest of the mattress, though at least it stays cool. There are no sheets or blankets, which suits him just fine. It’s hot as hell in his cell, day and night, and the air is stagnant.

Sometimes he sleeps on the concrete floor where it’s cooler and when he wakes, he can’t really tell the difference in the quality of his sleep.

Rogers dreams in paint splatters of color. The oppressive isolation has created a strange, meditative environment and he finds himself drifting off to vivid places. Vivid dreams, vivid thoughts, vivid fantasies.

Last night he dreamt of royal purple and noble pleasure. He woke up hard.

He shouldn’t have to rely on dreams.

He’d had Helmut so close. _So close._  He’d touched him. Held his hand. The Lernaean Hydra was their end game—the final, perfect move before glory. But then the False Captain returned. And the _cube_. The goddamned _cube,_ fooling everyone with its child’s face. It took everything from him again. Unwrote every hard-won victory, displaced his friends and allies, took him away from his Baron.

Steven Rogers is a crownless king, the ruler of the Shadow Pillar. He is also its prisoner. His personal guards work for the False Captain, and his subjects—well, there are none. Every other cell stands empty. It might have been comforting, in some way, to know there were other prisoners. Allies by circumstance. But he has none.

He does get one daily visitor, sometimes two, though. The first—and less reliable—is a small gray bird that made its way inside the facilities. He knows they’re miles offshore, knows the bird is lost. It never comes close enough to catch, even if he could get his hands through the bars covering the small porthole window that looks out into the hallway. But he sees it fluttering near the high ceiling outside his cell sometimes. Other times he can hear it chirping in the distance. It reminds him how things used to be. How they will be again.

Reminds him of the outdoors.

Of sunshine.

Of bright days and cool breezes.

Fresh air.

Freedom.

He knows well enough not to spend too much time watching for the bird. His guards get restless, bitter still over their losses as if every death was exclusively by his design. If it were up to Rogers, there would have been far fewer deaths and far more understanding. All he asked for—all he will ask for in the future—is loyalty. But the guards are small-minded and selfish. They only think about themselves and their tight circles. They have no care for the world at large. They complain loudly to one another, about him and the limited charges brought against him, about their extended shifts, and about their dissatisfaction with the state of the world...and about their paychecks.

It’s not quite a crack in the system, but with the right leverage, it could become one.

_You may think you have the world back, False Captain, but they aren’t truly satisfied with your way of life and they never will be._

These people crave order. Without order, they are brutish.

They will do what it takes to break Rogers.

They would kill the bird if they knew it brought him happiness.

So he doesn’t let them know. And when he finally leaves this prison, he’ll give them order. Then peace. It’s up to them whether that is shaded in Hydra green or funeral black.

His second visitor is the one that keeps him sane. The one who comes to him daily, one more important than all the birds in the sky. Neither his jailers nor the False Captain, who says no one is allowed near Steven Rogers, can do anything to keep this particular man from him.

Rogers’ grin spreads and he closes his eyes, savoring the approach, the sound of boots scuffing to a stop near him. The stretch and creak of leather, deep, even breathing. The sound of a friendly, lightly-accented voice.

_—Are you well, Herr Rogers?_

_—God yes. Now that you’re here._

He slowly opens his eyes, effortlessly recalls every line of Zemo’s body. The hardened discipline of a soldier, the lithe, quick strength of a trained swordsman, and the easy grace and balance of an accomplished gymnast. Simply remembering it stokes the fire of his lust, but hardly more than those other, older memories. Memories of a thick, bluff boy fighting so hard to be taken seriously, to be acknowledged, to be _better_ than those around him.

Time is no object. No one else dictates how long Helmut is allowed to stay by his side. Rogers is the master of their time together. Even if he slips into unconsciousness, the Baron will follow him into his dreams. And there’s no taking a man’s dreams.

_— I’m sorry we’re forced to meet in this place again today. That I haven’t made good on my promise. Unfortunately, I still haven’t found another loyalist. But don’t think I’m not working on coming home to you._

The day the False Captain came to visit, a guard had whispered _Hail Hydra_ in Rogers’ ear. It gave him hope for a while. But it seemed the man wasn’t careful enough with the secret of his Hydra allegiance and he’d disappeared from the guard’s ranks soon after. It didn’t matter. Cut off one head… Take out one loyalist…

Steven has been studying each of the guards, sometimes stirring shit just to bring them to his cell. It means a beatdown. It means temporary pain. But it also gives him a chance to watch them. He knows how they operate as a team, he sees the weak points. They wear heavy tactical gear which obscures their features but he's memorized their heights and the subtle differences in their builds, their unique movements, their stances. He knows who’s been with him from the beginning and he knows who is new. No one has whispered _Hail Hydra_ , but that doesn’t mean he’s alone.

 _— It’s unfair of me to keep bringing you_ here _to this shit heap. You deserve better._

 _— You seem to be under the impression that the location matters, Steven. I'm with_ you _. That is enough_.

Rogers made a promise to Helmut that they would meet in Malpaso. He’s been waiting a lifetime, not just the last 117 days. He’s been waiting since Leipzig, and before that too. Since the Cosmic Cube took his brother, his best friend, his lover, away from him.

Helmut’s visits are everything. Because more than sunshine and fresh air, the thought of Helmut brings sense memories. Touch, taste, smell...the memory of _being alive._

Rogers imagines running his hands along Helmut’s muscles, digging in, squeezing, seeking warmth and comfort. The Shadow Pillar won’t break him. The False Captain and his guards won’t, either. But if Helmut Zemo wants to come here, a beautiful mirage, and break Steven’s mind… then he welcomes insanity.

He walks over to the bar stretched across the low ceiling. It’s one of the only ‘amenities’ in the Shadow Pillar. If his jailers could somehow have removed it, he’s sure they would have, but it’s reinforced. He jumps, grabs the bar with both hands and pulls himself up. It won’t provide the sort of workout he likes, though. Nothing to make his muscles scream and his veins burn. He craves different sorts of exercise, sparring, weight training… _aerobic endeavors_ with Helmut. But he makes do.

_— What shall we discuss today, Captain Hydra? What do you fancy?_

_— Just you. Always you, Helmut._

Zemo could be his constant companion if Rogers so desired. With nothing but time on his hands, Steven’s turned conjuring the man into an art form. He can imagine him in any number of ways. As the mischief-eyed schoolmate from his youth, as his cruel, beautiful enemy, as his best friend, ready to serve Rogers’ vision of a new Hydra empire. Mostly, he imagines Helmut from that day in Leipzig, remembers the taste of his mouth, the heat of his skin, the delirious little sounds he made as they kissed in Heinrich Zemo’s former office.

Yes, he _could_ keep some version of Helmut with him at all times. But that might make him too comfortable here, so instead, he rations their visits, parsing them out as reward for surviving another day in this concrete hell.

Zemo walks around below Rogers, observing him as he works out, running a gloved finger along his foot. He’d give anything to actually _feel_ Helmut’s touch.

Steven is agitated today. Lonely. Longing. He listened hard for the bird yesterday, but didn’t hear it. He hasn’t heard it this morning either. He _needs_. He needs so much.

_— If I had a bed for us, Helmut..._

_— We will have one again soon._

He focuses on the bar above him, focuses on his body in motion. Dead hang, one full rep, quarter down, all the way up, all the way down. Repeat.

_— Since when are you so optimistic?_

_— Success is as much your birthright as mine. Perhaps, moreso. You will return to me. I’m certain. There is no one on Earth more capable._

One rep, quarter. One rep, quarter. One rep, quarter. Harder and faster. Perfect control.

_— You, Helmut Zemo, are a flatterer._

_— Hardly. If I wished to flatter you, I’d describe how deliciously those pull-ups accentuate your back muscles. Even through that dreadful t-shirt._

It will take many, many more reps before Rogers breaks a sweat, but he needs it. He needs to get this fire out of his veins. He needs to bleed off the excess energy. All he knows to do is to speak the words. To put them into the universe. To give them form.

 _—There’s something I need to tell you, Helmut. Something important. I was going to wait until we were together again. Until I could touch you. The_ real _you. But I can’t wait any longer._

_— Steven..._

_— Helmut, I lo—_

Helmut’s demeanor shifts. He looks haughty and very displeased. He folds his arms across his broad chest and glowers.

 _—_ Nein. _No. Stop this foolishness immediately, Rogers._

_— Why?_

He huffs out the pressure of a building chuckle, hiding the evidence amid his exertions.

_— Were you to say it now, it would be a surrender. And you, my dear Captain, you never give up. You are relentless._

Rogers grins wryly. Even in his fantasies, Helmut is stubborn and bossy. It’s familiar and true. He loves it.

For a long time afterward, they are silent save for the sounds of his exercise. He lets Helmut stare at him, enjoys the feeling of being watched, wishes the eyes on him were real.

He’s just dropped off the bar, still woefully energetic, when suddenly the slot underneath the door slides open and his food tray is flung inside. He catches it with his foot before it slams into the wall. Bits of food go flying. He scoffs. Someone’s feeling generous today. They actually filled the tray.

_— Fine cuisine. The barbarians can’t tell the difference between breakfast and dinner?_

_— Sadists are sadists, and food is food._

There’s no utensils, no napkin, no cup. If he wants water, he’ll have to drink it straight from the sink. He pokes at the food, wondering, as ever, if it’s been poisoned. Unlike Helmut, who believes there’s no honor unless you’re looking an opponent in the eye as you cut them down, Steven knows you should always choose the tool best suited to the job. Poison would make sense.

He imagines the False Captain throwing his weight around where Steven’s concerned. _Blah blah blah, we don’t kill prisoners of war…_

 _War._ Ha! There was no war. He assumed power from a people who begged him to lead. Because the American public craves strong leadership, because they want to be part of something more important than themselves, because they need catharsis. Because Captain America is made soft by his kindness, and Captain Hydra has never suffered that fate.

 _— Steven._ _Iss bitte etwas._ **_[1]_ **

_— You presume there’s something here to eat, Helmut. I’m not even sure what animal this meat is supposed to have come from._

_— Don’t be foolish. You have to keep up your strength. You’ll need it soon._

So he eats the square of mystery meat. He eats the limp greens. He eats the bland potatoes. All the while he glances at the dessert, and then immediately away, as if it might disappear if he stares too long. _This_ is unusual. No, more than unusual. In the 117 idyllic days he’s spent in the Shadow Pillar, there have been a lot of things on his tray. Some edible, some not. But never dessert. No sugar for prisoners. No dessert for revolutionaries.

It's a slice of Snow White cake. _Donauwelle._ But it’s more than cake. It’s a signal.

He eats each bite as if savoring his final moments of life, digging off the tiniest bits with his fingernails. It takes him an hour to eat the two inch square. He makes every second with it last, not because it’s the first taste of sugar he’s had in four months, and not because he expects to find the key to his salvation hidden inside... But because it came from Zemo. Because it carries his intentions. Because Helmut is alive and because he can exert influence even here. _Helmut is near_.

The first moment they have alone, Rogers will make love to Helmut, pleasure him in so many ways. He will pay him back a thousand-fold for this cake. For the sweetness, for the hope it brings.

_— I'm glad you like it._

_— Of course I do. No one knows how thoughtful you can be._

_— Oh, they have their terms for my nature. ‘Conniving’ is a favorite of mine._

_— Considerate. Meticulous. Caring. I find those more fitting._

_— Now who’s the flatterer?_

He studies Helmut for a long while. Lets his eyes paint over the Baron in broad strokes, taking in the shades of black and gold and purple—faded-plum to be exact—of his outfit. He memorizes Helmut’s masked expression to include in his dreams tonight. He almost wishes he’d imagined Zemo in one of his more garish outfits: purple and fuschia and gold with shoulders lined in snow leopard fur, if only because it would be entertaining. And because he wants Zemo out of his clothes. Nothing would be more satisfying than tearing that ridiculous clothing off the man. But he’s already here, in this way, in this outfit, and Steven couldn’t bear the interminable wait to simply have him leave and come back changed.

_— Undress for me. Slowly. I want to see every part of you, Helmut._

_— I suppose I could be convinced._

Rogers has fought to resist asking for this. Come close a couple of times, slipped off the edge others. The week the food stopped coming and they shut off the water, his mind started to unravel at the seams. And again, when the guards began a campaign of auditory torture, blaring high-pitched noises over an ancient, crackling speaker system. The lights had flickered wildly, in sync with the sounds. Worse even than either of those was when he hadn’t heard the bird for so long he became convinced the guards had killed it for fun. He knew he must have betrayed himself somehow, revealed just how much the bird mattered to him. In those times, he’d asked a lot from Helmut. Everything, actually.

But it’s a dangerous game, asking Helmut to undress. Seeing him naked and not being able to touch him frustrates Rogers, makes him hard.

There are cameras everywhere, watching Steven’s every move. A man can't just take himself in hand with the lights glaring down on him. Maybe under cover of darkness, but not here. Not when they all want a show.

Today though… Today there is _donauwelle_ and hope. But somehow hope taxes his resolve more than any torture his guards have doled out.

Today, he doesn’t care. Let the perverts enjoy their voyeurism if they have nothing better to do. Rogers wants his Baron, and he’ll no longer deny himself. _No more waiting._

Helmut strips, but not in a coy or teasing way. He simply steps out of his leathers, pulls off his body suit, neatly folds everything he takes off until he’s left in his mask and nothing else. He stands unselfconsciously next to a meticulous pile of clothing.

_— You have a strange sort of imagination, Captain._

_— And you’re a fastidious person, Helmut. You don’t remember, but, except for the mask, this is exactly how you undressed for me the first time._

Rogers swallows as he savors the erotic sight of his lover, unclothed. It is an amalgamation of memory, imagination, and knowledge. The frame of what Helmut was in youth, overlaid by the musculature he only knows by way of the Baron’s usual, tight attire. This was well worth the wait. He runs his palm along the sudden swell in his prison-issue pants, frustrated, hungry, aroused.

_— We’ve done this before?_

_— Often. Actually, I’d call it a favorite pastime._

_— Alas, I have only what you’ve told me and the few new memories we’ve made. I treasure our encounter in Leipzig, however brief it may have been._

_— Pull up your mask, Helmut, let me see you._

_— And you’ll speak to me of those other times?_

_— Gladly._

Rogers spits in his hand and then pushes beneath the waistband of his cotton pants. He slowly glides his palm from head to base, gently curling his fingers to squeeze along the shaft as he goes. The fabric is constricting, limiting motion, limiting speed.

He watches Helmut moving slowly toward him. God, how he wants to take the man into his arms, into his bed.

Ideally, Helmut would remember every moment of their time together before the Cosmic Cube. Ideally, the Allies wouldn’t have stolen their victory. But if it has to be this way, at least Rogers can enjoy the knowledge that, for Helmut, it will be the first time. He’s looking forward to pulling the Baron apart, piece by piece, until he’s nothing more than tattered cloth in Steven’s hands.

_— Close your eyes, Helmut. Pretend we’re anywhere but here. Pretend there’s no one watching us._

_— You are asking quite a lot, Steven._

_— I know. Just...trust me. Trust me and I’ll tell you a story._

_It was daring, what they did on holiday in Greece. And stupid._

_Rogers had been the guest of the Zemo Family, a rare and special treat. He’d known Heinrich was sizing him up, trying to decide if he was everything Elisa claimed. Steven hadn’t cared about any of that—the end result was a week away from school. A week with Helmut._

_They’d snuck out of the villa that night and jogged down to the beach together._

_If they’d been caught…_

The camera trained on Rogers is no longer a camera at all. It’s the bright eye of the moon. The gray walls are instead the inky shadows of that quiet night. There’s sand under his toes, not concrete, and the pressing silence is full of the swell and crash of the ocean. He and Helmut walk hand-in-hand to the water’s edge.

_They stripped to nothing, Steven sloppily throwing his clothes, Helmut’s carefully folded. They stared and gawked at one another, growing embarrassed—and aroused—by their nakedness. It was all still so new to them._

_Helmut pulled Steven into the water. It was warm and wonderful._

This isn’t the stifling heat of the Shadow Pillar, it’s the ocean, still warm from the day’s sunshine.

And it’s not Rogers’ hand on his own cock, but Helmut Zemo clinging to him, kissing him, allowing him everything.

_They swam out to a small alcove they’d found earlier in the day. They held tight to each other. They whispered secrets, even though they were far away from anyone who might overhear them or care._

_“There’s something...I think I would like to try.” Helmut cleared his throat, glancing quickly at Steven before looking away. It was hard to tell in the moonlight, but the flush of his arousal seemed to grow a few shades darker. “I heard it mentioned in the dormitory. An...act...you could request during a trip to a… Would you stop looking at me like that!”_

_“Like what?”_

_“Like you don’t know what I’m talking about!”_

_“I_ don’t _know what you’re talking about, Helmut.”_

 _“A..._ brothel _,” he whispered the last word._

_A nervous laugh bubbled up and Steven had to tamp it down. They’d already experimented with kissing and hands and firm touch. There’d been some rubbing, rocking, moving against each other through their clothing. They had shared in all of each other’s firsts. What they knew, they’d learned together. Learned from each other. Learned through experimentation. He hadn’t imagined there was much more he and Helmut could do together. (Oh, how naïve he’d been in those days...)_

_It wasn’t the first time Helmut had taken Steven in his mouth. But it was the first time he’d done it in_ that _particular way. Not with tentative lips and tongue, gentle kisses, exploration, but_ deep _. He pushed all the way to the back of his throat and then promptly choked, spluttering, and slipped off Steven’s cock with a wet noise. Steven was left speechless and trembling. It had only lasted a second, but any longer and he would have shot off— Embarrassing. But...that! He’d never felt anything like it._

_“Are you alright?” He’d thought to ask when his brain finally began to grind back into motion. Helmut knuckled tears from the corners of his eyes and nodded. He was flushed to his hairline._

_“Obviously, I need practice. I didn’t even manage to take you all the way.”_

_His lips had grazed Steven’s pelvis. The head of Steven’s cock had touched the back of Helmut’s throat. What more could there possibly be?_

_“You can go_ farther _?” Steven whispered, incredulous._

He tells Helmut the story, with every detail he can recall. It’s the backing track to his strokes, slow and steady. He recounts Helmut trying over and over to take him deeper into his throat, gagging, slipping off. He admits with a smile that might have been shy in another lifetime, that he _did_ shoot off prematurely—more than once. Helmut had been tenacious, _relentless,_ until he finally— _finally_ —pushed past the tight ring in the back of his throat. He learned to keep Steven there. He even learned to move a little without choking.

— _You got so good at it, Helmut. So good with your mouth. Just for me. Only for me. I was never as good as you at it._

_— Perhaps you simply need practice, Steven._

_— Once I’m out of here, Helmut, that’s all I’ll do._

His loose fist becomes tighter, his lazy movements, more hurried. _His Helmut._ Every inch of the man belongs to Steven.

His gaze becomes unfocused, and Helmut grows blurry as Rogers grips himself harder, the wet sounds of his spit-slicked hand drown out all other noise.

_— We’ll never leave our bed. We won’t eat, we won’t sleep. We’ll just make love._

All that’s left now is his hand and his fantasy of Helmut. His movements are tight and jerky, his range limited by the constricting fabric of his pants. He arches back, heels digging into the mattress as he draws closer and closer to that edge.

He watches and he feels and he remembers and he strokes. He breathes in short, shallow, desperate pants.

_— God-! HelmutHelmutHelmutHelmutHelmut._

And then he comes. Hard.

The clamoring euphoria lasts for a few perfect seconds before it all crashes down and he remembers he’s alone and his memories are just memories. Helmut is still there watching him, but suddenly the fantasy is not enough. Suddenly he feels as though it was never enough. He’s left the real Helmut waiting too long. It’s time to rectify that.

He extracts his hand, rolling the tacky mess between his thumb and forefinger, and considers his options. He doesn’t know if there is another loyal operative amongst the guards, but it doesn’t matter, because he has tenacity, strength, a brilliant tactical mind, relentless drive to better the world, and a _sign_ from the man he loves. It’s enough reason to make the attempt. It’s enough to get him through the reinforced door.

He raises his head, sneering up at the camera. He knows they’ve been watching, doesn’t care. Hell, the False Captain himself may have seen.

He can’t know if the cake is Helmut’s assurance that he has some measure of influence here, or if the man’s waiting with his Masters of Evil to storm the Shadow Pillar. It doesn’t matter. The message is enough. The hope is enough. He’s getting out of here. He’s going home to Helmut. And that means enacting the plan he’s been carefully cultivating for the last 117 days.

He stands and walks over to the corner where one of the cameras is conspicuously displayed. He smirks. He flicks his fingers at the camera, partially obscuring the lens with spunk. Then he bows.

Whether they think he’s taken the first step in an escape plan, or they’ve just been waiting for an excuse, no more than 30 seconds pass before Rogers hears the pounding of booted feet bearing down on his cell. He wipes his hand on his pants, and begins to breathe evenly.

He stands at the ready. These guards will only be a token force, there will be more in reserve, prepared to deploy however they might be needed. They’ll beat him down, teach him their petty little lesson. He will allow it—let them think they have him on the ropes. He’ll wait for his moment, and then he’ll strike back.

The locking wheel clacks as it’s spun open. They push the door wide and then like water through a breached dam, they rush in at him. They form up, riot shields interlocked, into a cohesive line. They are well trained; he’s heard their complaints. The False Captain puts them through full-contact drills every other week.  They believe they offer no weakness or hint of advantage. They are _wrong_ and it will cost them.

In a truly perfect moment of calm before the strike, Rogers hears the far-off sound of the bird. He attunes his Super-Soldier hearing to its song. He smiles. If he wasn’t convinced before...

“Flat on the ground!” they shout at him. “ _Flat on the ground!”_

The man at the far left of the line is broad-shouldered, stockier than the others. Rogers knows him, he’s one of the original guards, the one he’s mentally designated ‘Brutus.’

“No, I don’t think I will.”

The two in the middle could be twins. ‘Romulus’ and ‘Remus,’ he calls them. They move alike, they have very similar builds. They are also from the original group.

The line curves, they move to encircle him. The beating begins. But there is one guard… The one who favors his left knee, just slightly, as his baton cracks down: he’s new.

The blows come fast and furious, always from behind. Rogers swivels, watching them warily, but there is always someone ready to strike the moment his back is exposed.

They pull in tighter, closer around him, and when he falls to the ground, they alternate blows with their batons with kicks from their heavy-booted feet.

When Rogers is finally yanked up off the ground, it’s Brutus that has him by his hair. This is one of the three men he’s fairly confident is not a Hydra plant. He works blood and saliva around in his mouth. He spits.

He doesn’t like his odds. With only two new guards in the group, the timing could be better for this gambit. And if the ploy fails, he won’t be able to try it again. But goddamnit, there was a message from Helmut. So he trusts that Zemo—brilliant tactician that he is—waits only for Rogers to do his part.

Steven whispers to Brutus, a little too loudly, “Thank you for holding back.” And then, lower, “Hail Hydra.”

It has exactly the desired effect. Brutus drops him and staggers away, his hands raised in denial. Romulus and Remus turn on him, suspicious. Overzealous, they attempt to restrain the big man, and he fights back, throwing fists and elbows, shouting his innocence. The other two look at each other, and at the fight, then warily back at Rogers. They clearly do not like these new odds, but Steven pretends to hesitate, encouraging overconfidence.

The reserves will be on their way. The fact that he doesn’t hear them yet gives him another flash of hope. Maybe they’ve been deterred by something... _or someone._ The remaining guards move to flank him, one on either side. One of them draws a gun, and the other pulls a pair of manacles from his belt. Steven turns to face the man with the gun and the man at his back catches his arm and twists it behind him, locking the manacles around one wrist. Before he can catch the other, there’s a short, sharp retort from the firearm. It has that feeling of finality that all gunshots seem to share, even when they don’t hit their mark. The bullet strikes Rogers in the shoulder, tearing through skin and muscle and bone and out his back. He grunts in pain, but the cry of the man behind him presents an opening. He twists against the man’s slackened hold. The injured shoulder already hurts so badly, he barely even feels when the arm is dislocated. He slings his free arm around the guard’s neck and pivots hard, putting the man’s body between him and the shooter.

“Thank you, Captain,” the shooter says genially, a calm voice in a sea of shouted chaos. With seamless ease, he fires three shots into the other guard’s upper back and neck. The body jumps with each successive shot and Rogers looks down. His own shoulder steadily pours blood, but the guard held in front of him is dead.

He’s found his loyalist.

“Shots fired!” one of the twins cries out. To who? To his partner? To those watching through the camera? To the False Captain himself?

Steven’s loyalist turns and takes the twins down with a handful of well-placed shots, even as they scramble for their weapons.

“H-how…?” One of them gasps, gurgling, as he chokes on his own blood.

“No one ever locks up their gear around here, Frank,” the loyalist says, grinning. “Spend enough time with it, and you get to know its weaknesses, maybe even create a few yourself.”

There’s no more cliched exchanges between them. No _you’ll never get away with this…_ no _they’ll make you pay_... Just a gasp and a low moan as the man’s life seeps away.

Rogers goes to stand over Brutus, his tool, his catalyst. If the man had surrendered himself, this escape attempt would have been over before it truly began. He is battered, unconscious. His nose broken, his jaw dislocated, his left eye swollen shut. Steven places his hand on the man’s forehead, in thanks and gentle benediction, then slides his other hand behind Brutus’ neck and twists sharply.

Helmut watches him from the corner, an easy smile contorting the mask he has returned to his face. He always did enjoy a good, dramatic death. He nods in approval.

— _You shouldn’t linger, Captain. There will be more of them. Many, many more. Don’t let your guard down for even a moment’s time._

— _It’s just an highly-trained paramilitary force, Helmut. Nothing I can’t handle. I’ll be home before you know it._

 _— Ich freue mich schon auf dich._ **_[2]_ **

 

~ Fin.

 

[1] Please eat something.

[2] I am looking forward to you.

 

**Author's Note:**

> These darn fics just became a series. <3
> 
> A piece of donauwelle to my German beauties [Staubengel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Staubengel/pseuds/Staubengel) and [Bluethenstaub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluethenstaub/pseuds/Bluethenstaub) for their continuing help.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> **Please, please, please consider leaving comments and kudos! I'm sailing on the itty bitty Hydra!Stemo ship and your feedback gives me life and purpose.**
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr!](https://cosmo-is-beink-melon.tumblr.com)


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